


Multipartite

by jehanfrollo



Series: Multipartite [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Dark, Denial of Feelings, Grooming, Headcanon, Hunger Games, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Poverty, Riku's Extended Family, Underlying Riku/Sora
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27974138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehanfrollo/pseuds/jehanfrollo
Summary: Riku should have known. The odds wereneverin his favour.AU.
Relationships: Ansem Seeker of Darkness | Xehanort's Heartless & Riku, Ansem Seeker of Darkness | Xehanort's Heartless/Riku, Kairi & Riku (Kingdom Hearts), Riku & Roxas (Kingdom Hearts)
Series: Multipartite [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048882
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hunger Games/Kingdom Hearts AU no one asked for but I'm writing anyway. Please consult tags and warnings carefully before reading. An extra note - that 'major character death' warning is not there just for show. Lots of death in this fic. It is the Hunger Games after all.
> 
> Kudos and comments are super appreciated so if you enjoy let me know what you think! I have a lot of ideas for this AU and they'll inspire me to keep writing.

Riku arrives at the beach before the sun has broken over the horizon, stars still twinkling in the early dawn sky. He'd set his alarm for five am, even though today is the one day of the year he’s less pressed for time than others. On Reaping Day, he doesn’t have to go to school. On Reaping Day, he has until two o’clock before he has to scrub himself down and put on his silly little outfit and present himself at the Justice Hall. But there's just no way he can sleep. He'd rather be out and about than sit around his house and wait in stomach-churning anxiety for the hours to tick by. He has to keep busy, or else he might go mad.

The beach is empty, the tide snaking away along the shoreline. He dumps his bag on the sand and props his torch between his teeth, crouching down beside the _Highwind_.

Strong currents crashed it up against the rocks the last time he took it out, leaving a small breach in the stern. He'd had to stuff both his vest and his shorts into the hole to stop it from sinking, and then pull the boat back to shore naked, much to the amusement of the other boys. Though his face warms at the memory, he would endure being the - as Tidus so helpfully supplied - 'lily-white butt of the joke' for years to come if it meant saving his boat. He relies on it for everything. And considering he built it himself out of scrap when he was ten, he's honestly amazed it hasn't already splintered apart beyond repair.

Rooting about in his bag, he pulls out his hammer and some wood he’d scavenged from the garden. The mend would look piecemeal, but that was par for the course on the small island. As a people, everything they own is second-hand and battered, held together by string, tape and a few wonky nails. From their schoolbooks to their shoes to the very houses they live in.

As he works, the other fishermen begin to arrive in dribs and drabs for their morning shift; dark shapes wandering around the beach, pushing boats out into the shallows and grumbling to each other.

Someone nudges his shoulder. "Need any help?" Wakka squints down at him, a net and a long fishing spear dropped on the sand at his feet as he ties his bandana across his forehead.

"Think I'm alright," Riku replies, as best as he can with a torch in his mouth.

"Suit yourself. Oh, when you're done, the nudist beach is that way."

Riku gives him the finger and he laughs. Today, of all days, Wakka still somehow manages to be in good spirits. Come two o’clock, he won’t be smiling any more. Like Riku, Wakka is sixteen years old. This will be his last Reaping – the worst of them all.

At the age of twelve, every child in the districts becomes eligible for the Hunger Games. Your name goes into the pool once, neatly printed on one tiny folded slip. At thirteen, it goes in two times. At fourteen, it goes in four times, and so on until today, when it will go into the pool sixteen times. Sixteen chances your name will picked, at sixteen years old.

It structures the odds, says the Capitol, as if they gave two shits whether the dead child they shipped back from the arena was at the younger or older end of the spectrum. Anyone with any sense knows the odds are _never_ in their favour. And yet, no one would ever do anything that might, say, _increase_ their odds of being picked, right? Who'd _want_ to fight to their death for the entertainment of the whole country? They'd have to be insane.

However, for children like Riku and Wakka and Tidus, it just doesn't work out that way. Almost everyone Riku knows has been forced to sign up for Capitol tesserae. Tesserae guarantees a yearly supply of lard and grain rations in exchange for further multiplication of your name in the running. Safe to say, when you’re just scraping by on the small island, your name is going to printed and folded on at least thirty-two of those little slips by your last year of eligibility. And then, if you have family, you can claim tesserae for them too, at the cost of an additional four more name slips into the pool per head. Riku signed up for tesserae on behalf of himself and both his housebound mother and brother who, at twenty-eight, is too old for the Games.

This year, for his final Reaping, his name will be going in to the pool a total of forty times. If his father and two other brothers hadn’t died in a boating accident before he was born, his name would be probably be going in fifty-two times.

The tesserae is one of the reasons why it’s rarely the kids on the Big Island who get picked at the Reaping. They’re the kids who get to live in nice brick houses. Who wear nice new clothes and whose parents work in nice town offices – the same kids who hold their nose when Riku comes into the classroom and complain about the smell of fish.

No, when the name gets plucked out of the bowl, odds are it'll be the whelp of some dock labourer. A crab fisherman or a coconut harvester. Someone who lives in a wooden shack on the small island with no running water, and who never had enough to eat despite working since they learned how to walk.

They’re usually the first to die in the arena. A guaranteed corpse. Any advantage their frugal, hands-on lifestyle might lend to the Games is rendered null and void when they don’t have the charm to attract the right eyes. Some wealthy sponsor in the Capitol who, for example, might want to send them some life-saving medicine when they get seriously injured. Small islanders are too rough around the edges for the Games, too insusceptible to Capitol bullshit. Just like in the real world, in the arena they end up just being forgotten. Left to starve and be picked off by the other tributes, to succumb to the elements.

By the time Riku’s finished his boat repair, the pale sun is shimmering across the waves and streaks of pink and orange pierce through the remnants of the night sky. Riku gets his fishing knife and his net and is all ready to push the _Highwind_ out to sea, when loud careless footsteps come up behind him on the sand.

“Riku! Just in time, I thought I was going to miss you.”

It’s a gargantuan effort to straighten up. To turn his head and deal with his face-on.

“Sora,” he says stiffly, dumping his gear in the boat. “What are you doing here?”

Sora is his best friend. No, _was_ his best friend. They used to hang out in school and meet up when Riku wasn’t working, along with a girl in Sora’s class called Kairi. They’d go to the Wharf and scrounge for barbecued crab and cups of hot fish stew, build sandcastles on the beach and explore the caves just off the shore. It earned the two of them quite a reputation at school. After all, Sora and Kairi are from the Big Island, and it’s rare for Big Islanders to mix with small islanders.

It’s only in the last few years Riku’s been making excuses to avoid spending time with them. He can’t even really be honest about _why_.

How can he tell them that every year another underfed small islander comes back in a box, the less inclined he feels to entertain any child who came from the other side of the water? The children who barely bat an eyelash as their abysmal tally of dead tributes rises, because it’s just another poor soul who was already dead the second he or she happened to be put down on the less affluent of the two islands?

Sora has a pair of fishing poles in his hands. “I was thinking I’d join you?” He hasn’t been put off by Riku’s less than welcoming demeanour. His grin is still in place, scrunching up his cheeks. He looks so young still; the sight brings Riku back to a simpler time, when he wasn’t so damn cynical of everything.

“I’m working, Sora. I’m not going on a leisurely fishing trip.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep out of your way. I can just sit here, on the other side.” He tries to put the poles in the boat.

Riku flings out an arm to block his way. “No, you won’t. I know what you’re like. You’ll goof around and capsize the bloody boat–”

"Hey, I know how to sail! _And_ fish! Do you know what? I bet I can even catch more than you, Mr Professional!"

In spite of himself, Riku's mouth twitches. Emboldened, Sora manages to dart under his arm and the poles clatter into the _Highwind_.

"Why aren't you with your family?" Riku asks. "Isn't that what people do today?" It's touching Sora wants to spend this day with him, considering the threat hanging over their heads that it could be the very last day either of them spend in District 12.

Sora shrugs. He's pulling a heavy looking satchel off his shoulders, laden with colourful floats and cartons of mealworm. "Eh, I don't really like all the doom and gloom. If it's happening, it's happening. Sitting around while my mum cries isn't going to change that-"

"It's not happening," says Riku curtly. "How many times is your name going in today? Eight? I had twice that when I was fourteen."

"Really? Wait, how many...?"

"Forty."

This time, there's a little hesitation as Sora lowers the bag into the boat. His eyes go very wide. "Oh," he says, and he sounds so surprised, all Riku's goodwill instantly dies in his chest. "That's... Riku, that _sucks!"_

"Yes, Sora. It does suck. So don't stand there and act like you've any chance of getting picked. It's insulting."

"I'm sorry." He does sound it, not that that makes Riku feel any better. "I... ugh, I always end up upsetting you somehow." He scuffs the toe of his sandals against the damp sand. "I don't mean to do it, I just... I really wanted to see you again. Especially today, I keep wondering 'what if'... well..."

What if Riku gets picked? Well, it's not like the odds are in his favour or anything.

"I hate that we don't spend time together any more," Sora continues. "Those were the best days of my life, you know? When you never know what's coming round the corner, I just... want to feel that again, even if just for a little while. What do you say?"

For a moment, Riku's almost tempted. Almost. Those days were the best of his life too. When he was with Sora and Kairi, sometimes he felt like he was just another ordinary child. That the days he had to work his fingers to the bone were the anomaly and being a happy carefree boy was the norm, not the other way around.

Unfortunately, he can't play pretend any more. He has a family to feed. He hardens his heart and lifts Sora's bag out of the boat. "Sora, go home."

"But-" Sora scrambles for the bag as Riku shoves it at him.

"I said go home." He doesn't have the arms for the poles yet, so Riku just chucks them at his feet. In the back of his head, he has a niggling notion he's being too cruel right now, but it's Reaping Day and he has bigger things to worry about. He pushes the _Highwind_ out into the shallows.

"Wait, Riku..." Sora is rifling through his bag, pulling out a small package about the size of a book. "Kairi asked me to give this to you. She couldn't come down herself."

Riku takes it out of curiosity. It's beautiful; wrapped in patterned cloth and delicately bound in twine. It looks like the birthday presents she still sends even when he doesn't do anything anymore to celebrate the occasion. He wipes his dirty hands on his shorts and unties the twine. It's a little wicker crate packed with fresh produce - a tiny carton of strawberries, speckled quails eggs, three sugared buns and a small jar of honey.

His face burns. "I don't want _charity_ ," he says, trying to hand it back to Sora.

Sora steps away from him, shaking his head. "It's a gift, Riku. She sent one to me too. Can't anyone do anything nice for you without getting it thrown back in their face?" He awkwardly snatches up the poles and half the floats fall out of his bag. "I'll see you at the Reaping then? Good luck, I guess..." He stalks away off the beach, leaving a little trail of dropped fishing supplies in his wake.

Riku watches him go, his stomach turning upside down. And to think, this day is only going to get so much worse. 

"Yo, Riku!" Wakka's boat drifts a few feet out in the bay. "What does this remind you of?" He holds up a worm, wriggling between his thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah, hilarious." With a sigh, Riku puts his old friends out of his mind and gets to work.

__________________________________

From his vantage point out at sea, he spots the Justice Hall on the Big Island. There are Capitol cars and trucks everywhere, bodies running back and forth as they set the stage for the afternoon entertainment. Pens to cordon off the children in the middle, family and other spectators to the side. Bright lights, cameras at every angle; a giant screen front in centre to project events live for all to see. Riku can already envisage the haunted form of the first tribute as she climbs onto the stage in her grey dress. Her hunched shoulders, her hard calloused hands folded at her stomach. He looks away and shakes out his net.

They didn’t always have to fish so far out from the small island. For centuries the people who came before were able to strike that delicate balance between man and nature, but with mass industrialised trawling stripping the seabed bare, they now have no other choice but to move out into choppier, more dangerous waters for their catch. Wakka’s boat bobs alongside his. They try to keep close to each other in the off chance they’ll need to scoop one another out of the water. Riku always heads straight for land the second he spies suspicious clouds, before another _Highwind_ can end up wrecked at the bottom of the ocean.

At first, Wakka sings as he works, but as the minutes and hours go by, he falls into silence. Riku throws out his net and lets it slap loudly on the surface of the water.

“You shouldn’t be so rough with him, yeah?” says Wakka. Riku doesn't know what he's talking about until Wakka adds, “You don’t know when will be the last time you see someone you care about. Next minute, they’re gone.”

Riku sniffs. "Sora needs to understand I can't just drop everything for his sake."

"Or maybe _you_ need to understand it's not all about the grind, Riku." Wakka pulls himself up right beside Riku's boat and rests his oar across his lap. "You don't know what I'd give just to drop everything to spend some time with Chappu again."

Chappu was the male tribute two years ago. At twelve years old, he'd been a smaller, even cheerier version of Wakka. Sometimes he would come out on the boat with them, chirping away non-stop as they worked. 

The whole country watched him die, live on air. Riku remembers hearing the street erupt in blood-curdling screams.

It had been particularly gruesome, even by the Games' standards. Chappu was cut down by some District 3 savage, the force of the blow nearly severing him in two. Riku had thrown up all over himself and sobbed uncontrollably; kept sobbing as Yazoo found that scrap of brotherly instinct inside himself to pick Riku up and clean him off in the bath. He didn't go into the main room of the house for two days after that, knowing the presenters would be replaying the moment over and over again on that wretched television set they couldn't turn off. Sensationalising it, making their japes, showing the grisly footage from all different angles-

"Hey, are those strawberries?" Wakka asks. "Chuck us one."

"Here." Riku holds out Kairi's gift in its entirety. "Take this home." Wakka's family could use it a hell of a lot more than him, especially today.

A loud ship's horn blares behind him and Riku jumps. The wicker crate tumbles out of his hand and drops down between their boats.

"Shit!" He makes a grab to salvage something - anything - but it's all sinking. The little blue eggs, the strawberries, the jar of honey. The sugared buns float but they're ruined, already sodden. Riku snatches the crate and the cloth out of the water and is surprised to find himself so suddenly devastated. He hadn't even wanted this stuff. Maybe it's just a visceral reaction to seeing food be wasted.

Wakka surges to his feet. An enormous trawler cuts through the water barely five feet from them, emblazoned with the Capitol emblem. "Fucking _assholes_!" he screams.

The rest of his tirade is lost in another deafening blare of the ship's horn, but Riku's mouth falls open. Wakka even picks up his oar and shakes it at them. A couple of fishermen on board look down over the gunwale, their expressions sullen. They make no apology for nearly blasting over the top of them in their giant steel monstrosity.

"Wakka, sit _down_." Riku nearly falls out of the boat trying to pull him back down. "Do you want them to come after the rest of your family?"

"They can't even hear me," Wakka grumbles as he flops back into his boat. He smacks his oar against the water, splashing the two of them. They rock violently on the slipstream left by the trawler. "Come on, let's get this over with and get back to shore. I'm fed up."

They barely got any fish today, so they pick around the rocks for shellfish before coming in to the docks. Splitting their catch, they head to the Wharf, the small dingy market under the bridge to the Big Island.

Technically, trading at the Wharf isn't officially permitted, but as nothing gets exchanged there of any particular value to the Capitol, Peacekeepers tend to look the other way. It’s only basic supplies, sometimes a bit of moonshine if Cid’s feeling particularly bold. Riku doesn’t like going on Reaping Day, when there’s far less inclination for leniency amongst law enforcement, but there are certain things he can’t go without. He has no choice but to go in and haggle off his wares.

There’s only a few traders, even fewer shoppers. Everyone looks nervous today, extra shifty, as if they’re expecting a squadron of Peacekeepers to come blasting into the scene at any minute. Riku makes his business quick. He exchanges four snappers for a bag of dried beans and a box of chicken eggs, a handful of mussels for a block of soap, and a big bag of seaweed for some new batteries and six fat tallow candles. He feels like he’s getting away with far more than he usually would – he’s even allowed to sharpen his knives for free on the butchers wheel - but on Reaping Day, adults _always_ get weirdly generous with the children that come to the Wharf. If only they would be like that all the time.

Finally, he steels himself and goes to Cid. Their gruff local ‘pharmacist’ puffs a cloud of smoke into the air and gives Riku’s offering the once over. It’s a few small fish, the last of his seaweed and mussels and a bucket of crabs. Not enough for what he needs, by any metric. Still, Cid reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small vial of clear liquid. Riku tries not to look too relieved.

“She needs new needles as well,” he says, pushing his luck a little.

Cid reaches into his other pocket. Riku discreetly tucks the paraphernalia into the little pouch he keeps tied around his waist.

As he turns to leave, Cid calls after him. “Oi, kid.” He hands back the fish. “You wrangle up a nice lunch for your mama.”

It's nearly noon by the time he's heading back to his house. As expected, the atmosphere in the neighbourhood is appalling. He passes ashen-faced mothers scrubbing their ashen-faced children red and raw on the porch, running back and forth between houses to borrow belts, buttons and ribbons. As if scrounging up a nice outfit meant their child might have less chance of being Reaped.

He lifts the latch on his gate and sees his brother waiting for him in the front garden, pacing in circles and tugging on his long greasy hair.

"There you are, Riku." He's suddenly right up close, clamouring in Riku's personal space. "Mother's been wailing and groaning all morning. It's driving me completely mad - you have brought it, haven't you? Ah, excellent." He reaches up under Riku's shirt and whisks the pouch free. Riku shies away from his cold clammy hands. "I'll sort her out now. Do you want to make lunch? I know you're good at that."

And then he's abruptly gone, flitting up the path and through the front door like some overgrown silver moth.

Begrudgingly, Riku follows. True enough, their mother's distress is evident. She's twisting in her armchair in front of the fire, a dark cloth covering her eyes. In the corner, the television set projects some garish panel show in anticipation of the live Reapings, interspersed with pictures of lavish parties and excited Capitol crowds. Yazoo has thankfully muted the set. Riku ignores it as best he can, watching his brother fill the syringe with the medication and slip the needle into the juncture of her arm. Her groans abate almost immediately. He turns away, heading back outside to prepare the fish.

"Can you heat up some water?" he calls in as an afterthought, flicking a stringy line of guts off his arm. He's going to absolutely reek. "Hey, Yazoo. Can you heat up some water for me to take a bath?"

There's no response. Riku sighs. He rinses off the cleaned fish and makes a quick careless job of filleting them before he pops inside. Yazoo is still knelt in on the floor in front of their mother, his head resting on her knee. He looks like he's fallen asleep.

"Never mind then!" Riku yells, watching him jolt upright. "I'll just go the Reaping in my bloody rags, will I?"

Yazoo face breaks into a familiar vapid smile. "No, no, I've laid something out for you. Have to look your best, don't you? Give me a second and I'll get your bath sorted." He changes his mind halfway across the room, sinking down onto the sofa and promptly closing his eyes again. There's no way Riku would've ever let him anywhere near the stove in this state anyway.

Over the years, he's learned not to expect much from his only living brother, but he thought on Reaping Day Yazoo might've tried to be a little less selfish.

There's a blue chequered shirt and a pair of navy trousers waiting for him on the bed. Riku watches himself in the mirror as he dresses, thinks of how stupid he looks in these sensible clothes. They don't even fit properly. Whose were they? His father's? He puts on a belt, toes on his boots and tries to fix his damp hair. It's getting too long. He's starting to look too much like Yazoo.

As if roused by his thoughts, his brother appears behind him in the reflection. He props his chin on Riku's shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist. "I knew blue was the right choice," he murmurs. "Black isn't really your colour, is it?"

Seeing the two of them side by side like this, they really are extraordinarily alike - even with their nearly thirteen year age gap. The few differences in their appearance come from lifestyle. Where Riku is tanned and weathered by the elements, Yazoo is pale and washed out; his eyes lined and his features just a little too sharp. He has the look of a strange pale flower coming up through murky water. They say when he was younger, he was very beautiful. Age tells a story, however, and the passing years on the small island were enough to wear anyone down to the bone.

"Will you come to the Reaping?" Riku asks.

Yazoo blinks slowly at his reflection. "I'm not too good with all that."

Distantly, the sirens begin to wail. It's the summons to the Justice Hall. Riku can't stop the shiver that crawls over his body. Yazoo steps away, taking the warmth of his embrace with him. Riku feels the childish urge to cling to him.

"Fine," he says, grateful his voice doesn't waver. "Maybe I don't have that high a chance of being picked, anyway. There's loads of other kids my age whose name is going in a lot more than mine."

He thinks of those forty slips waiting in the bowl and wants to vomit.

"This is your last one, isn't it?"

Riku nods. Yazoo idly scratches the inside of his arm.

"Maybe I will go with you," he says, after a pause. "Then we'll come home and have lunch together. With Mother?"

"With Mother," Riku agrees, shivering again.

As they leave the house, he kisses her on the cheek. She responds with a soft hum, her eyes staring blankly into the fire. If she recognised the sirens or understood what they signified, there was no trace of it on her face.

He and Yazoo join the silent crowd heading down to the bridge over to the Big Island. To ease the tension clenching his stomach like a fist, he pictures the delicious lunch of fresh fish waiting for him on the kitchen counter when he returns. Maybe after, he'd be in good enough spirits to go down to the beach and spend the evening with Sora and Kairi. Eating a dessert of strawberries and sugared buns and laughing together as if they didn't have a care in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

The Capitol official beckons him forward. He takes Riku’s finger in his gloved hand and pricks him with a small sharp instrument. Blood wells up, dripping down onto the open page of the register. His prints are taken and scanned. The official waves him on and the next boy takes his place. Not a single word is exchanged. Considering the hundreds, maybe thousands of people gathered in the concourse area, the silence is deafening.

Prior experience takes him where he needs to go. It’s the smallest children who dither awkwardly, unsure and frightened on their first Reaping. He walks past a girl who’s wet herself, whimpering for her mother. An older girl grabs her hand and pulls her along before a Peacekeeper can come and compel her move with the butt of his rifle.

He scans the pens, looking for a shock of dark red hair, an unruly mop of chestnut spikes. But there’s too many heads – a _sea_ of heads – every islander child between the ages of twelve and sixteen jammed into this one concourse area. It seems like there's more and more and more every year; all creeds, all colours.

Riku can’t understand why anyone would choose to have children in the era of the Hunger Games.

In his pen, he sees Wakka and discreetly makes his way to his side. There's a grey tinge to Wakka's skin; his jaw clenched so tight the muscles spasm in his cheek. They don’t speak. They don’t even look at each other, what comfort they draw from each other's presence left uncommunicated. They know they’re being watched, and friend groups aren't allowed to gather in the pens.

It’s little wonder Wakka is so nervous. It isn’t uncommon for the Reaping to be rigged to garner maximum interest amongst Capitol audiences. The siblings and children of former tributes have higher odds of being selected than those with no familial history in the Games. It makes for good headlines, a juicy topic to cover on those ghastly panel shows. District 12’s only three victors were a father and his two sons, and if that wasn’t enough to prove the blatant fiddling of the system, it was certainly enough to prove a streak of brutality ran in that particular family. The only Games their district had to its name, and they were some of the most infamous in the Games history. Riku’s eyes drift to the stage, but the seat reserved for their last surviving victor is empty.

The Capitol representative for District 12 gets to his feet and takes the mic.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," he drawls, grinning at the crowd. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

Reno Sinclair is emblematic of everything Riku hates about Capitol citizens. Even when he reasons that people born in the Capitol had as little choice in the matter as those put down on the small island, their attitude, the way they look, even the way they _speak_ \- it's just awful. Everything about Reno screams of arrogance and vapid narcissism. From his face tattoos to his easy swagger to that ridiculous amount of bare chest he has on show.

He's not as absurd looking as the woman who'd had the job before him. She'd been scary; her face frozen with fillers and her teeth studded with jewels, her pink hair teased up into an array of spirals and spikes. But Reno would still only fit in in the Capitol. No one in the Districts has the time or inclination to dress like a rock star when they're living hand to mouth and sending their children to the Reaping each year.

On the big screen, the Capitol emblem appears; a pink rhombus set against a dark red square, words in a dead alphabet stamped across it in white.

Apparently there are scholars in the Capitol who can read the ancient text. But on the islands, it may as well be gobbledegook. In school they tell you it translates to 'unity and prosperity', but naturally, it's become the subject of many running jokes. Choice translations Riku's enjoyed over the years were 'leading experts in population control since the Dark Days' and 'we're going to murder your children' and, his personal favourite, 'fuck the districts'. Riku wouldn't be surprised if any or all of those were true. These people have no shame.

A voice starts narrating how the first Hunger Games came to be. Riku shifts his weight between his feet impatiently; he's heard this so often he can practically recall it word for word. Jealous and greedy governments conspired to ruin the bountiful Capitol, sending their agents to infiltrate the city and murder innocent civilians under the guise of climate activism. War was waged and thousands died, thousands of children orphaned. Infrastructure destroyed, harvests spoiled, whole towns and villages left to starve. When the Peace came, the Capitol was forced to section off the rest of the country into districts and forbid movement across border lines. To ensure they would never willingly engage in open acts of radicalism again, each district would be compelled to send one male and one female child every year to the Capitol, to fight to the death in the arena. The victor and their district would be rewarded with riches beyond their wildest dreams...

It's the same old shit every year. Riku's attention is pulled away, drifting to the glimpse of sparkling azure ocean just beyond the screen. There are trawlers everywhere, cutting through the water like giant steel sharks. Depleting tomorrow's catch, no doubt. He focuses his eyes on the scrawny nape of the boy in front of him instead.

Finally, the narrator concludes with the promise they'll never go back to the Dark Days, there'll be Light and Life for years to come, so on and so forth. The Capitol emblem fades from the big screen, replaced by a live picture of the stage. Zooming in dramatically on the officials bringing out the two bowls, filled to the brim with folded slips of paper.

A ripple runs through the crowd, a collective shudder.

"Alright," says Reno again. "Now it's time to select one very lucky young man and woman to represent District 12 at the seventy-fourth Hunger Games. And as always, in the spirit of chivalry and definitely not the spirit of casual sexism, we'll have our lovely ladies first." He dips his hand into the bowl and rifles about, plucking out a slip.

When he crosses back to his mic, there's a sudden commotion in the spectator pen. Some drunk shouts out his predictions and immediately starts being hushed and jostled by those around him. Riku's head turns momentarily to see Peacekeepers grab hold of the man and haul him from the concourse area, his yells of indignation quickly stifled. But it's too late - Reno's already called out the name of the female tribute and Riku's missed it.

"Who?" he blurts without thinking. Wakka kicks his ankle. Thankfully, the Peacekeepers are too preoccupied with the drunk heckler to notice.

Everyone's standing on their tiptoes, craning their heads to see. Riku doesn't spot her until she starts to climb the steps up onto the stage. He sees a pale pink blouse - neatly pressed, tucked into a long woollen skirt. Dark red hair plaited and coiled into a pinwheel on the back of her head.

His heart stops.

All of a sudden, all he can see are blue speckled eggs and strawberries sinking under the surface of the water. Her beautiful homemade gift to him, lost through his own carelessness and spite.

"No," he breathes, and Wakka kicks him again, harder.

Kairi takes her place on the stage, pale but steady, her arms at her sides.

"Now for the boys." Reno plucks out a slip and breaks it open. No, no, no, this is all happening too fast. Kairi _can't_ go to the arena. She couldn't even keep the pace when he and Sora used to race each other down the beach. She'd trip in the sand and they'd have to go back and haul her up, giggling and breathless. How could anyone expect her to fight for her life... She can't, she couldn't... she'll _die_...

This time, he hears the name of the male tribute loud and clear and it yanks him straight back into reality like he's been hooked through his lip. It's not him, it's not Wakka, it's not any of the other small islander boys who had to sign up and have their names multiplied by the dozen for the sake of putting food on the table.

It's Sora.

Riku is certain at this point he's dreaming. He's going to wake up soon and go down to the beach to mend the _Highwind_. He pinches his arm and startles at the resulting sting. Oh, okay. So this is really happening.

Has the Reaping been rigged? Why would someone in the Capitol play that game with him? Him, a nobody? Just a small island fisherman who never did anything to anyone? He can't think of any other explanation. There's no way out of all those thousands of slips both Sora and Kairi could be picked purely by chance. The odds are just astronomical.

He feels frozen. Rooted to the spot. Wakka's hand closes around his wrist but he barely feels it. Then, he sees Sora break away from the crowd and stalk up to the stage, in the same stubborn, determined manner he stalked away from Riku earlier. It's that stinging vision of Sora grinning and holding the two fishing poles, the way his face fell when Riku rebuffed him, that prompts Riku to step forward before he can even rationalise what he's doing.

"I volunteer!" he shouts, pulling his arm free of Wakka's grip. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Every head turns his way. The crowd parts. The cameras zoom in and his face suddenly appears on the big screen. Oh god, he should have worn a different shirt.

"Fantastic!" Reno glances sideways at the officials. Clearly he hasn't been prepped on what to do in this situation. It's been well over a decade since anyone in their district last volunteered. Someone hurries over to whisper something in his ear. "Uh... okay, right. Yeah, great, a volunteer!" He waves a hand. "Come on up here, kid."

Riku hears Sora shouting his name, screaming it even. Some Peacekeepers arrive to force him back into his pen. Riku doesn't look his way as he passes. Cold dread is starting to settle into his throat, his stomach; the sort of tension that precedes vomiting. But he can't show any weakness. He has to look strong. He's going to the Games now and this is where the footage of his campaign will begin.

_He's going to the Games now..._

His foot is barely on the stage before Reno swings an arm around his shoulders and steers him towards the mic. "Let's have an introduction, shall we? What's your name, kid?"

He gives short, blunt answers as Reno makes a half assed attempt to wrangle something engaging out of this coverage. Kairi's eyes bore a hole into the side of his face. The whole crowd is staring at him. In every household in the country, they're all staring at him.

His stomach lurches unpleasantly. He makes himself stare blankly into the distance and encases his heart in steel.

"So, how about a round of applause to our tributes for District 12, Kairi and Riku!" Reno claps a couple of times. No one joins in. It's so silent you could hear a pin drop. "Jeez. Never change, District 12. Alright, let's wrap this up. Happy Hunger Games, may the odds be ever in your favour, all that jazz..."

They're ushered off the stage and brought into the Justice Hall under armed supervision. Kairi is sent one way and he the other. He thinks she tries to say something to him but there's no time to talk now. He's pushed into a small room. There's just a sofa, a couple of chairs. A box of tissues on the floor, maybe left by a weeping parent from the years before. Any attempt to make this place more comfortable for its intended purpose, the place where the tribute has to say goodbye to his or her loved ones, is belied by the iron bars welded across the window, sending an eerie cast of shadows across the room.

The door slams shut behind him and the lock clicks into place. Riku sits down on one of the chairs and quietly contemplates the magnitude of what he's done.

__________________________________

As his immediate family, Yazoo is the first one they send in to him. Riku's on his feet in an instant, grabbing his brother's shoulders and pinching his fingers in tight.

"I don't have much time to say this to you," he says. "So you have to listen to me very clearly, okay? You need to get it together. There can't be any more lying around in the house all day, tapping in to Mother's medication and waiting for someone else to bring home the bread. You're all she has now, do you understand?"

It's a discussion they should have had years ago. When he was younger, he remembers a few weak attempts at broaching the subject. Why should he, a little boy, have to go to school _and_ work, while all the adults in his life did nothing? But Mother was catatonic and Yazoo was either too strung out on the cusp of needing a new hit or too high to listen. Right now he's in that middle ground, still hazy behind the eyes but not unreachable.

"You're all she has now, do you understand?" he repeats, his voice raising slightly. "You're _all she has_ and you're a fucking mess. This needs to stop today."

Yazoo stares at him. "That is so unfair, Riku," he whispers. "I'm _sick_."

"I know you are." Riku wasn't yet born, so he has no idea what sort of person Yazoo was before the accident. Before he'd managed to swim his way to shore and stood there waiting for his brothers and father to join him, only for their corpses to wash up on the sand a day later. The guilt he must have felt to have survived something like that when everyone else died... it must be what the victors feel like when they come back home after the Games and turn to the bottle or the needle to try to forget. "But you have to learn to work with it, okay? Mother's relying on you. There's no one else to do this for you."

When there's no response, Riku slaps him. " _Promise_ me, Yazoo! I need you to be strong for me, so I can be strong out there-"

"Why are you doing this?" Yazoo says. He's so unmoved by the slap Riku almost questions if it actually happened. A handprint blossoms slowly on his pale cheek. "Why would you volunteer to die for that boy, rather than come home with me? To Mother? We're your blood, Riku. Blood is all that matters."

"Sora's my friend, I-" His brain hits a brick wall. Flustering, he changes direction. "Look, we don't have time to discuss this right now."

"I promise to do what I can," Yazoo says. "But you have to promise me something too." He steps forward, even though they're already practically nose to nose. "Promise me you'll make them remember who we are."

"Make them remember...?" Riku doesn't understand. "Who? The district?"

"You have this chance to remind them of what we can do. Do it, Riku. Make them suffer."

To his horror, he suspects the last words he's ever going to exchange with his brother are the deluded ramblings of a drug addict. "What the fuck are you _talking_ about?"

There's a knock on the door; they're out of time. Yazoo brushes a stray piece of silver hair out of Riku's eyes, trails his thumb softly across Riku's cheekbone.

"I'd take your place if I could." And then he's gone, the back of his silvery head disappearing out the door. The grief that hurtles up Riku's throat is so raw he almost cries out, but he just about manages to stuff it back down before the door opens again and Sora comes blasting into the room like a hurricane.

Unlike Riku, Sora has been crying. His face is dripping with tears, his nose running. And unlike Riku, he's under absolutely no obligation to conceal it. The cameras have moved on; his fifteen seconds in the spotlight already over.

If Riku was expecting an embrace of some kind, he doesn't get it. "Riku, what the hell! Why did you _do_ that? This was your last Reaping!"

The thought makes him snort. Wouldn't that be one for the books. If Riku makes himself a memorable enough tribute this year, they'll probably make sure Sora's picked again at next year's Reaping. Maybe Riku should just throw himself off the podium before the Games even begin, blow himself to smithereens before anyone can remember his name.

"This isn't funny!" Sora shouts. "You need to have a game plan - you need to fight this -"

"Sure," says Riku dryly. "So should my game plan be to kill Kairi first or wait until we're the last two in the arena?"

Sora recoils. A short silence falls. Really, Riku doesn't know what the hell Sora wants him to say. That, hopefully, someone else will take her down first and then he'll have a free stretch to the finish line? The very thought is unforgivable. How could he ever bear to come home with the gold, with Kairi's body in a box beside him?

"It was my burden to bear," says Sora. "You didn't have to take my place. This was for me to deal with. Why did you... Why did you volunteer for me, Riku?"

"Are you kidding me? You, in the arena?" He imagines Sora trying to scavenge for food, not even knowing how to start a fire and being too damn nice to raise the cold edge of a blade to anyone. Tragic. "At least I have a chance at keeping Kairi alive. I can protect her way better than you ever could."

Sora's eyes widen. Riku relishes the sight; would much rather face his anger than face his tears. All the uncomfortable emotions inside himself that make him want to hide in the corner and cover his face.

"It's done," he says. "If you want to be useful, get mummy and daddy to start a fund to send me decent items in the arena or something. You know, if they can stomach the idea of doing something nice for a small islander."

He turns away, facing the barred window. Behind him, Sora just sighs. It's not quite the outburst he'd expected. Sora even says, "Riku, I'm sorry."

"Yeah? For what?"

"This is... this is how you cope, isn't it? I always wondered why you never asked anyone for help. Why you'd rather push me away and isolate yourself, acting like you don't even know me rather than just letting me bring you a packed lunch every day. I can't believe I didn't see it before."

Riku tenses. "That's not - don't act like you know something-"

Sora pushes on over the top of him, over the sharp knock on the door. "You've _never_ had to prove yourself to me, Riku. You're my best friend. I've always known how strong you are, and everyone else will too! In the arena, you... please don't think you can do this alone too. You and Kairi are going to need each other. No matter what they do to you - don't let them take away the good you have inside yourself, okay?"

He hears the door open, and a gruff voice bark, "Time's up."

"I'd have volunteered for you in a heartbeat," Sora continues quickly. "I really hope that we can see each other again, Riku-"

There's a gasp, the squeak of shoes being dragged along the linoleum, and then the door closes. Riku stares hard at the bars for ten slow, careful seconds. It's only then he brings his hands up to his face and grinds the heel of his palms against his eyes. This was the last time he'd ever speak to Sora. The last time he'd ever see him. And he just snapped at him and looked the other way. Everything left unsaid would just go to the arena and die there with him. So _stupid_.

Someone grabs his shoulder and he's suddenly face to face with Wakka. His red hair falls loose around his eyes. "Riku, take this."

Something soft gets shoved into his hand. Riku blinks down at it. "... what?"

"They let you take a token into the arena," Wakka says. "Something from home. Take this. Wear it for everyone to see. Please."

It's Wakka's bandana. Blue, patterned in an islander motif. Slightly worn from the years it's been bound to Wakka's head, and Chappu's before him - 

Oh.

He rubs the fabric between his fingers. He has nothing of his own he'd take in its place; nothing valuable, nothing particularly sentimental.

"Alright," he says. Wakka nods. Then, the plea bursts out of him, high-pitched and wavering. "Wakka, my family, they're-"

"You know we'll take care of them. We take care of our own on our island, don't we?" He bumps his fist to his chest.

"You don't understand," says Riku. "My brother - he's... he's... I don't know how much more of this he can handle..." It feels stupid, making the case for a nearly thirty year old man to a sixteen year old boy. But the more he thinks about it, the more the panic starts to build in his chest. "Even if... you could just talk to him. Keep his mind off it..."

How? How could they keep his mind off it indefinitely? Riku would be the third brother Yazoo's going to lose, leaving him alone in the house with a mother who already may as well be a corpse. His whole world a ghost town.

"I'll handle it," says Wakka. "I know what he's going through. Don't worry, Riku. I've got your back." His face hardens. "But this is only for a short time, you hear? You're coming home."

Riku laughs breathlessly. "I don't think I am."

"You are. Get that into your head now. That girl? She's not going to make it." The bluntness of those words takes Riku aback. Wakka scowls. "We all know it, Riku! She'll not even last a day. There's no sense in you dying too. Win this thing and get back here. I'm not having another good kid die and become another fucking statistic for those bastards to roll out year after year on their sick little panel shows."

If it had been anyone else saying this to him, Riku would have been disgusted. But he remembers Wakka making the same claim about Chappu before he died, and knows Wakka doesn't mean it disparagingly. It's true, most people are just not made for the Games. They haven't been hardened yet by the trials and tribulations of life. Chappu, too young. Kairi, too gentle. Sora...

Riku raises his eyes to the ceiling and sighs. "This is so fucked up..." 

"Yeah," Wakka agrees. "But you can't do anything about that unless you come home, you hear? So come home."

He leans forward and they rest their foreheads together. The warm, damp press of his skin against Riku's feels like a drop of water being tapped from Riku's chest. Soon he'll crack; overflow and burst, and he'll crave arms around him. Hands in his hair, soothing murmurs and the warmth of a body to envelope him. The embrace of a mother. Something he's never had and likely never will, now...

Wakka pulls away, nods again, and leaves. Riku sinks into his chair. He can't take any more of this.

His last visitors come into the room. He didn't expect this, though he really should have. It's Sora's parents.

They approach him slowly, somewhat cautiously, the way one might approach a feral animal. Riku scoots his chair back slightly as they take a seat on the sofa. Sora's mother has a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, Sora's father crying just as openly as his son. Big fat tears drip down his face. They don't say anything to him.

Riku folds his hands in his lap and stares off to the side. They'd always been quiet around him, the few times he'd gone round to Sora's house or the odd occasion they came looking for their son when he'd stayed out a bit too late on the small island. He remembers the meek, polite edge in the way they'd smiled at him, their eyes lingering on his ratty sandals that didn't quite fit right, his unwashed tangled hair and the callouses on his hands at such a young age. How they'd glanced at each other whenever word came up about his home life.

They'd never wanted him for Sora's friend. Even as a little boy, he'd understood that and hated them for it. He'd even hated Sora for it too, a little.

Once, Sora's mother happened to catch him alone in the hallway when he was coming back from the bathroom. Compared to how small and mousy she looks now, she'd seemed so tall then. Terrifying, almost, looking down at him from a mile above his head. _Sora's quite taken with you, Riku,_ she'd said.

There'd been an accusation in it, something that made him want to pick at his own skin. He'd ducked past her and never went up to their house from that day on. Maybe that had the beginning of it. Riku started hanging out with Wakka and Tidus at school. Spending more time at the Wharf on his days off, getting to know the traders and turning down invites to meet up with Sora and Kairi.

And yet, in spite of all that, here he was. Sora's parents must be overjoyed. They hadn't realised at the time they'd found themselves a complete sucker who'd one day voluntarily take Sora's death sentence from him. Why were they even crying? They should be laughing. Maybe they came to see him just to make themselves _look_ contrite, before they go home and happily stuff their big fat faces. Watch the replays of the Reaping and think to themselves, well, good thing it's not _our_ boy...

He's relieved when the knock finally comes, but Sora's mother utters a little sob. She gets to her feet, reaches for him. Startled, he jumps up and trips backwards over his chair, knocking it over.

"Oh, Riku-" She sobs again. "I can't bear this - I can't-"

She turns and hurries from the room. Sora's father composes himself for long enough to say, "Sora tells us your mother is very sick. We'll keep an eye. Make sure she's getting what she needs. It's the least we can do..."

The impulse to say no is on the tip of his tongue. To scream at him to fuck off, that they'll make do without his help. If he'd said the same thing to Riku this morning, that's what would have happened. But now...

He swallows. "Okay."

Sora's father nods, wiping his streaming eyes with the cuff of his shirt. "You're a very brave boy, Riku."

A Peacekeeper comes in and takes Sora's father by the elbow, escorting him out before Riku can work himself up to say thank you. Like with everyone who came before, he can't help but feel like the opportunity to say the things he really should have has been lost forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments much appreciated if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

On the train, their little team of attendants lay out an enormous feast in their carriage. Whole chickens and hanks of ham swimming in gravy. Roasted and pureed vegetables. Huge platters of steamed fish and potatoes cooked a dozen different ways, piled high. Breads and sweets and desserts, glittering decanters of different coloured spirits and wines. So many plates and trays and bowls the tables sag in the middle. The smell is so enticing, Riku’s mouth fills up with saliva in spite of himself. He’s never seen so much food in one place.

Even Reno’s eye wanders as he fills them in on the details of their journey to the Capitol. It’ll take a day and a night to get there, where they’ll be immediately delivered into the hands of their styling team to be ‘prepped’. He’s halfway through warning them this can be a very lengthy process and to make sure they’ve had plenty of sleep, plenty to eat, and to have gone to the toilet beforehand, when he finally decides the demands of his stomach are more important than actually doing his job. He slinks off his chair and grabs a plate.

“Don't mind me, guys." He pops a couple of chocolate liqueurs into his mouth. "Standing out in that sun all day builds up a bit of an appetite. Help yourselves, by the way. This is all for you. May as well enjoy it before… well, y’know.”

While he’s turned away, Riku finally gets a chance to look at Kairi. Since the armoured cars and their Peacekeeper escort arrived at the Justice Hall to take them to the train station, they've been silent and uncommunicative, knocked for six by the weight of all their goodbyes. She reaches for him now and they clasp hands. Her skin is cool to the touch despite the heat of the carriage.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

She nods. “You?”

"Never been better.”

That makes her smile weakly. Unfortunately, Reno glances over his shoulder and catches them.

“Hey, I’d advise not getting too attached,” he says, drawing a little line between them in mid-air with a large chocolate éclair. “There can only be one winner, after all. On that note, I should probably go fetch your mentor. He’ll be your go-to for strategy - what not to do, the whole thing with the sponsors. He also happens to be the nicest guy you'll ever meet." He laughs to himself as he strolls into the next carriage. "An absolute _darling."_

"Riku," Kairi begins, when the partition door slides shut behind him. "What you did was so brave..."

He wishes people would stop saying that. He doesn't feel brave, he feels _stupid_. It was only when he had to face the people he was leaving behind did he realise how much his spur of the moment decision would ruin their lives. He tries not to think of the atmosphere in his house right now. Would Yazoo even bother trying to explain this to Mother? Would she even understand? Or would she just smile emptily to herself, as footage of Riku being led off the stage by Peacekeepers played in the corner?

"Did Sora come to see you?" he asks.

"Yeah." She sits back and smooths a hand over her hair. Her little pinwheel is starting to unravel at the back. "It's incredible. He almost had me thinking everything was just going to work itself out."

Sora had that way about him. Always seeing the light even in the darkest of circumstances. Riku has no place in his heart for that sort of senseless optimism now; he has to be realistic if he has any hope of surviving this.

Wakka's words ring through his head: _That girl? She's not going to make it_.

Shame compels him to let go of Kairi's hand.

At that moment, the partition door slides open again and Reno comes back into the carriage. The man who follows is someone Riku has only ever seen on the television. A tall, haunting figure with a sheet of silver hair and piercing gold eyes. Ansem, District 12's last surviving victor.

Riku sits up in his seat instinctively, feeling nerves flood his stomach, but Ansem doesn't look over at him. He heads straight to the banquet table and pours himself a large glass of brandy.

"Look what these fucks have given us - what even _is_ that?" Reno pokes at one of the fish dishes. "It looks like some blobfish hybrid they made in a lab. Remember when we used to get smoked salmon?"

Ansem smiles coldly. In one mouthful, half the glass is already gone. From the flush on his face, Riku suspects he may have started drinking hours ago. "What did you expect? Start churning out some victors and maybe they'll bump up the budget for next year."

"Isn't that _your_ job?" Reno starts hacking off a piece of the fish. "Here, taste this for me."

"And why would I do that?"

"I need to make sure it's not poisoned. Listen, I'm from the Capitol, you're just small fry from District 12."

"When Rufus gave you this district, he was making his opinion of your worth to the Capitol very clear. You're on par with the people he has clean his toilets."

Reno blusters at that, while Ansem finishes off his glass smoothly, still smiling his sharp smile. They still haven't so much as glanced over at the two children sitting behind them.

Riku and Kairi look at each other.

With a stab of disgust, Riku realises this is all just a big joke to them. These men are supposed to be preparing them to fight for their lives in the arena, and so far they've barely even extended them the most basic of courtesies. Instead, it's as if he and Kairi are part of the furniture. Ignored, upstaged by a fucking _blobfish_ \- 

Riku gets to his feet. He storms over to the table, grabs the platter from underneath their noses and throws it as hard as he can across the carriage. There's a loud clang as the plate ricochets off the wall and sends its contents flying. The fish hits the floor with a splat.

"When you two are ready to start taking us seriously," he says, pointing back to his chair. "Kairi and I are waiting over here."

Childishly, he relishes the way Reno stumbles backwards in shock and nearly falls on his ass. The opportunity to turn his back and stalk off is stolen, however, as a gloved hand grabs hold of his jaw with biting fingers, nearly pulling him up off his feet. Pain shoots through him and he gasps. The power in the man's grip is palpable - so much so, Riku quells the instinct to fight him off. Instead, he forces himself to stay still, balanced on his tiptoes, as Ansem turns his chin up to scrutinise him intently.

Up close, he's even more terrifying. His features look sharp enough to cut.

"What's your name, boy?" Ansem asks after a tense pause, breathing the scent of brandy up in his face.

"Riku," he spits, through his clenched jaw.

"Your surname, _Riku."_

He doesn't see the relevance that has to anything. "Faremis."

"... Hm." Ansem releases him. There's a soft clink as he tops up his glass. Riku considers grabbing that and throwing it too, but when Ansem sets down the decanter and looks at him, Riku can tell he's already piqued the man's interest.

"You have fight in you," he says. "Most of the tributes from our little island, they give up long before they arrive at the Capitol. Perhaps before their names are even chosen at the Reaping."

Reno gets over his dismay at what's become of his fish dish just in time to chime in, "Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. Riku volunteered for another boy."

"Is that so." Ansem sips his brandy as he considers this. "Tell me. What compelled you to take his place? Was he a friend? Someone you cherished?"

Riku's stomach swoops. He's just remembered _Ansem himself_ was a volunteer. Even though he's tried to avoid any extraneous coverage of the Games his whole life, he's seen the footage. Everyone has. The incident is just too pervasive in their island's history. The twin who chose to take his brother's place, made all the more tragic by the fact they were the orphaned children of the district's only victor at the time, who'd died shortly after they were born. The family came from small island stock, but far from being looked back on as heroes, they're now so widely despised people don't even like to mention their names.

It was only when Ansem entered the arena did everyone realise he hadn't taken his twin's place out of any notion of love or self-sacrifice. He just really enjoyed killing. He won the Games with one of the highest death counts to his name in history, and he'd only been twelve years old.

It caused such a stir it was no wonder his brother ended up getting Reaped again the next year. That hadn't done their family's dwindling reputation any favours. The brother - Riku can't remember his name - was a manipulative little snake who formed a huge career pack to take down the vast majority of other tributes for him, only to stab them all in the back and take the prize for himself. A few years later he came to some sticky end in the Capitol, or so Riku heard. Riku has no sympathy for him, either of them. As far as he's concerned - you live by the sword, you die by the sword.

"I don't know," he says eventually. He isn't going to talk about Sora with this horrible man. "What compelled _you_ to volunteer?"

Ansem's lip curls. Leather creaks behind them; Kairi shifting in her seat. Ansem's eyes drift to her momentarily.

"This is Carrie," says Reno.

"Kairi," she corrects quietly.

There's a short, tense pause. Riku can feel his discomfort mounting. Ansem is looking at him as if his eyes could see right through him.

"If you want me to take you seriously, then you will do everything I say," he says eventually. "What I offer you is invaluable, but should I find you have been inclined to discard my advice, know you will find me both decidedly uncooperative and... _very_ displeased."

Kairi glances at Riku, uncertainty all over her face.

Ansem is their only option for a mentor so they really have no other choice. It's embarrassing, though, how much this man already unnerves him. Though Riku knows he's a murderer, there's no way Ansem can do anything to him that's worse than what the Capitol already has. And yet...

Riku shrugs. He'll just have to keep on guard. "Yeah. Sure."

"Good." Ansem turns to leave. "We begin in the morning. I suggest you get well rested."

When he's gone, Reno hums. "Well, you two must be doing something right. Most of time he doesn't really bother with the tributes."

"But isn't that the whole reason he's here?" asks Kairi, surprised.

"Suppose he has to be here," Riku murmurs, "the same way we have to be here." Becoming a victor doesn't cut a person free from their obligations to the Capitol. Riku supposes he should at least be grateful the other brother died before he could rope them into scheming and backstabbing their way through the Games. Ansem, if anything, just seems the type to pass over that bullshit and stab you full in the face.

Kairi waits until they're alone again before she says, "I don't like him."

"He's not here to be our friend," says Riku. "He's here to keep us alive."

Later that evening, they sit down to watch the Reapings from the other districts. There's a few memorable tributes - a tall boy with a scarred face knocks another boy aside to volunteer in District 2; a petite girl in heavy duty work goggles and gloves skips forward in District 8. In District 6, Peacekeepers snatch a stuffed animal from the arms of the female tribute and she bursts into noisy sobs. In District 11, a small surly blond boy takes the stage. The representative asks for volunteers and silence meets his words; broken only by the toll of bells from the clock tower behind them.

"He looks like Sora," Kairi says softly.

Ah, so that's where the sudden strange tension in Riku's chest comes from. The tributes eyes are just like Sora's - the same shape, the same sky blue colour. But in place of Sora's vibrancy, his are dull and despondent, staring down at his shoes.

They then have to endure the footage from their own Reaping; Kairi and her dignified ascent onto the stage, Sora's shocked dismayed face as Riku voice rings out. God, he sounds so loud hearing himself back. Confident, even. When he strides forward, he almost looks _over_ it. He wishes he'd given Yazoo a slap for putting him in that stupid chequered shirt.

In his room, they've left out a pair of soft cotton pajamas for him to sleep in. He throws them into the corner and strips off, choosing to sleep naked. When he gets to the Capitol he'll have no choice over anything he wears; this is his last opportunity to refuse.

He stands at the window and squints out at the last of the light just fading from the sky. He can see rolling hills, the odd jagged silhouette of a quarry. Trucks lugging back and forth, laden down with stone. For those workers, the world hasn't stopped turning because of the Games. In fact, for the vast majority of people, life just goes on. It's a strange thought.

He searches the skyline for a glimpse of the sea, but they've come too far inland.

__________________________________

The next morning, he's unceremoniously torn from sleep when Ansem comes into his room without knocking and whips the blanket off him. Riku jolts as if he’d been doused in cold water.

“Up,” says Ansem. “I expected you an hour ago.”

Riku resists the urge to cover himself and looks at the clock. It’s nearly eight a.m. “… But you didn’t say anything about–”

Ansem leaves as abruptly as he'd arrived. Cursing, Riku dresses in his Reaping clothes and runs a hand through his tangles before hurrying down to the breakfast car.

Kairi is already there, pale faced and picking at a piece of toast. Her red hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Riku slides into the seat beside her and feels his stomach turn upside down at the sight of food. He hasn't eaten in nearly a day, but he thinks he might throw up if he tried. Outside, the rolling hills are long gone and their train has slowed down to a crawl, snaking its way through low grey swampland. Dark dingy slums clump together on the few available swathes of solid ground. The land around the Capitol was purposefully left uninhabitable and almost entirely inaccessible unless by their own trains. It keeps the district riffraff out.

"When we pull into the station," Ansem says. "I want you to hold your head high. Do not slouch. Do not shy away from the cameras but do not look for them either. You got off to a good start at the Reaping. I want you to act as if all of this is beneath you. Show no weakness."

That's good. Riku couldn't play the waving, smiling tribute if his life depended on it.

"Um," says Kairi.

"Yeah, I'm not too sure about that for the girl," says Reno from the other end of the table. "She's a bit too soft, isn't she?"

From the way Ansem's brow furrows, Riku can tell he hadn't spared Kairi's campaign so much as a passing thought. "Yes," he agrees. "She would benefit from a more humble approach. Sponsors do not tend to be so fond of arrogance in a female, particularly one with so little to show for it."

Kairi says nothing to that. Reno snorts, and Riku feels a hot flush crawl up the back of his neck. He should really step in here and tell Ansem to fuck off; to treat Kairi with a bit of respect. But at the same time, what he's saying isn't entirely untrue. Everything about Kairi can be read just be looking at her. Pretty, but plain. A life of little strife or hardship. Besides, now's the time she should really learn to stick up for herself. No one is going to do that for her in the arena.

"That will not serve," Ansem says. Riku follows his eyes down to the centre of his own chest and scowls.

"Yeah, I know. But I don't have another one to change in to."

"Not your shirt," says Ansem. "The token."

Riku blinks. Wakka's bandana was stuffed in his breast pocket - he'd forgotten all about it. "Why not?"

"I recognise it - there is a chance viewers will too," says Ansem, pouring himself a coffee. "You don't want to be associated with such a humiliating death."

Riku bristles. Could he not be so despicable for just a few minutes? "What do you mean, _humiliating?_ Chappu was a little kid and he got butchered like an animal."

"Chappu, yes, that was the poor boy's name. It seems even at the bottom rungs of society, children are still not born equal. I was taking out tributes twice my size at his age."

"Congratulations," says Riku coldly. "It's really done you good, too. Can tell it's made you into a really well-rounded, respectful individual."

Ansem is smiling as if this is funny. "You're right, child. It _has_ done me good. I doubt your little friend Chappu spares much thought to his enduring strength of character, wherever he is now."

"Was Chappu the one with the gammy leg?" Reno asks. "Or was he the one who blocked up all the toilets in the tribute centre?"

Riku doesn't know how much more of this he can stick. Thankfully, Kairi, who up until now had been sitting in appalled silence, suddenly gets to her feet and crosses to the window.

"There it is," she whispers. "Oh... my god..."

An enormous structure creeps out of the gloom beyond the edges of the swamp. A metal spire as tall as a mountain, sitting upon a huge spherical plate. Beneath the plate, they can see a metropolis; tiers and tiers of buildings, overpasses, cranes, support beams, all sprawling out in every direction and pressing up like the jagged roots of a tree trying and failing to grow out of a closed box. The city below looks ten times the size of the one on top, so obscured with smog and shadow its glittering with spotlights and street lamps. And yet it still looks so _dark_ , a city in perpetual night. It's simultaneously the most incredible and most horrible thing Riku has ever seen. 

Reno whistles. "Home sweet home."

Riku is absolutely lost for words as the train pulls up beneath the plate. How many millions of people live under this thing? In his head, the Capitol always looked like some gleaming white cake of a city, with wealthy fat men and women walking designer dogs down leafy boulevards. He's never seen or heard anything about this grimy sub-section ever, on any footage or report from the Capitol. Not the wear and tear on all the buildings, not the clothes hung out to dry on lines hundreds of feet in the air, not the smoke, not the rubbish, not the blinking advertisement screens, nothing.

He glances at Kairi to gage her reaction. Her mouth is hanging open. She's just as gobsmacked as he is.

"We'll be heading above the plate in a minute," says Reno, coming up beside them. "The trainline just takes us underneath for most of the journey. Ideally, we'd avoid all this ugly shit, but the proposed changes to the infrastructure would've ruined some bigwig's view out his back window or something, so..."

"Who are all these people down here?" Riku asks. "Are they... workers? Why are they _beneath_ the plate?"

Reno snorts. "Fuck me. Babby's first introduction to class dynamics or what? Of course they're workers! You think you lot in the districts are the only people who have to work for a living?"

"But-" He can't understand why its so _dilapidated_. If these are Capitol citizens, why aren't they demanding better conditions? Why would they settle to live underneath an artificial shade, dependent entirely on electricity to see their way while the rich live above them in the light of the day? "What do they even work as? The Capitol outsources all its labour to the districts."

" _Fuck_." The patronising little shake of his head is enough to make Riku want to kick him. "And you district folk think people in the Capitol are ignorant."

"You want to know who they are?" Riku jumps. Ansem has managed to come right up behind him without him noticing. Riku takes a step aside so there's a respectable distance between them. "They're your audience."

"What are you talking about?"

"The people who live below the plate are more invested in the Games than the ones who live above." He smiles unpleasantly. "Did you think it was just popular amongst the privileged? Then I'm afraid you've missed the point. You see, when you and your family are forced to live below the ground like rats in a sewer, there's nothing to cheer you up more than knowing there are still people who are worth so little compared to you, they're sent to die for your entertainment."

The train veers, bringing them up through a tunnel up above the plate. Riku cringes at the sudden brightness in the carriage. The daylight city is all smooth metal, glass and marble. As they pull into the glossy station, he sees a crowd has gathered that rushes toward their train, waving and shouting, craning their heads for a glimpse of the tributes. They look so alien, with their dyed hair and skin, their strange garish clothes. So much make up he can barely tell which faces are male and which ones female.

Ansem pushes him forward slightly and he realises he'd taken a step back without meaning to.

"Don't despise them too much," he says, his mouth at Riku's ear. "At least _these_ ones can afford to send you gifts."

__________________________________

A thick layer of strong-smelling blue paste is applied all over his face and body. He isn't told what it is before his prep team start slapping it on him - but from the fumes, he assumes it's some sort of chemical peel. His eyes stream so badly they have to keep re-applying it to his temples. After about fifteen minutes, it gets scraped it off and he's slathered in a cooling balm. He feels like he's just had a layer of skin burnt off.

One of the stylists coos at him. "Oh, I knew it! You're as lovely and pale as the moon under all that nasty tan. Keep up the sun bathing and you'll look like an old leather boot by the time you're twenty five!"

She happens to not be lovely at all. Maybe if she hadn't dyed her skin a peculiar shade of lavender. Her colleague lifts Riku's hand and tuts at the state of it. "Have we anything for all this callous?"

"File it down." The third wrinkles her nose as she looks him over. "I should have a pumice stone in my pack. Do you want to do that or start waxing him? I'm not fussy either way."

"You do the pumicing, I'll do the waxing." He wags his fingers at her. "I think the stone would fuck with my nails - I only had them done yesterday."

Riku lies there on the slab, naked as the day he was born, as these three strangers hover over him and peck at every little fault and flaw they can find. He had to adjust very quickly to the intrusion of their hands on his body. The first time one of them touched him, he recoiled so violently she'd squealed in fright.

By the time they're done with him, he feels both baby soft and strangely rough. While smoothened by copious amounts of oil and lotion, without the hair on his body to prevent friction, the robe they slide him into seems to drag against his bare, stripped skin. Worst is the site of the injection to his jaw, which tingles uncomfortably. "To prevent unsightly stubble!" they squawk. They then wish him all the best and send him on to their supervisor. He's left feeling quite baffled, not able to determine if they were either genuinely nice or just genuinely stupid.

The lead stylist hasn't arrived yet so he sits and waits. He knows what's coming. Tonight will be the tributes parade and the official opening ceremony of the Hunger Games. They'll be wheeled out on chariots, the President will give a speech, and he'll see the other tributes in person for the first time.

Nerves are starting to curdle in his belly; worse than before. This parade is the stuff of nightmares. It's traditional to dress the tributes in costume respective of their district, which, in Riku's case, means he'll probably be shoved into some stupid fish costume. Gills and fins and scales and everything.

That, or they'll forego the creative in favour of sex appeal. He's seen tributes before with nets knotted strategically at the crotch, maybe a few bits of sea weed here and there to protect their modesty.

The longer he waits, the more he sinks down his chair in despondency. He longs for the comforts of home. For his small living room, the fire crackling in the hearth, for the soft sounds of Yazoo humming to himself as he potters back and forth- 

The door finally opens. He looks up and gasps.

"Hello, Riku," the newcomer says. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

For a second, he really thinks it's her. But no, Mother is back in District 12, sitting in her armchair in front of the fire. Mother hasn’t looked him in the eye and called him by his name as long as he’s lived. God… this woman looks like her, though. The softness of her voice, the sweetness of her smile; it’s just as he always imagined she would be, if weren’t for the accident. If it weren’t for her illness, if it weren’t for her life on that goddamn island...

"I'm Aerith." The woman holds out her hand, gold bangles jingling down her pale wrist. "It's lovely to meet you, Riku. Know I'm going to do my very best to help you get through this."

Stunned, he shakes her hand, wondering just how many more of own ghosts have managed to follow him the two hundred mile journey from home.


End file.
